2000 Years
by TheEliot
Summary: So cold. So dark. So scared. But it's not the fear or the pain or the panic that bothers me. It's the dagger he put in my heart. 2000 years and I'm free. I'm free, and they say he's coming here. I'll either stab him or kiss him.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**Hey guys! This is my first story, so I'd really appreciate any feedback-good or bad! Thanks for reading :)**

* * *

Darkness.

Hard, cold walls pressing in on me—walls that remain icy despite the length of time the heat from my skin leeches into them.

So cold.

So dark.

I used to be terrified of this. I would wake up from nightmares every night—nightmares of darkness. Of cold. Of prison.

That was years ago.

I've become used to this feeling. The feeling of asphyxiation. The feeling of being buried alive.

It's the feeling of betrayal that tortures me now.

I feel deep exhaustion weigh upon me, but sleep brings such visions that I force it away. I dismiss the tugging at the corners of my mouth and the tears pooling in my eyes. I push the memories into the corner of my mind, and blink the tears into submission. I won't think about that anymore. It does no good.

Instead, I listen. I don't know if it was the vestiges of affection for me left in him, or if he just forgot, but when he bound my abilities and put me in this…this…place…he left my radio on—the ears in my mind that hear the waves around me—the waves that form sound and emanate from satellites and scream from the minds of humanity. I can tune in to it information that started pouring in with the rise of human technological advancement has been beyond fascinating. I think it's kept me sane. If I am sane.

I'm listening to the angels bicker, now. They seem to do that more and more lately—so scared, so lost, so hungry for meaning without their Father. If I didn't hate them so much, I might feel sorry for them. What's upsetting them this time, I wonder…

Hah. Of course. The Winchesters are up to mischief again. I never tire of hearing of their exploits, even if following their story forced me to listen to tales of _him_. They seem to be closing in on a dangerous artifact. A box. The angels debate intervening—but no, of course they won't. They sit back and cross their feathery fingers and hope that the Problem in the box and Team Winchester will destroy one another. Two birds with one stone. The discussion begins to heat up, and then—

Oh.

Some secret. An angel silenced mid-sentence.

How strange. I feel for once as though I don't know all the information. Have they…_could_ they be keeping something from me? No. They aren't even aware of my ears.

From whom do they keep secrets?

Hmm.

I put the problem off for a later date and close my eyes, imagining my consciousness flying high in the sky, free, the sunlight beating warm upon my clean face, the wind caressing my skin and twisting my hair…I let myself hear snippets from across the globe. A man greeting his wife. A child pranking a friend. A sergeant reporting for duty. A television actor weeping into the arms of his television love.

Hah. Dr. Sexy indeed.

There is only so long that I can distract myself, though, before I begin to dwell in the past, before the walls pressing so tightly, the cold leeching into my skin, the dagger of betrayal piercing my heart begin to weigh on me, and I find that I can't catch my breath. Can't breathe. So tight. Oh God I can't breathe oh please oh please make it stop what did I do what did I do why would he do this oh please oh God oh please I just want to

Stop.

I mentally shake myself. No wallowing. It's never helped before and it won't help this time eith…

A sound.

Not a wave. A _sound._ _My _ears. My _physical, honest to God ears are picking up sound_. A scraping sound. I glance up to the distant roof of my cylindrical chamber, whence the sound comes, and try to force my eyes to pierce the darkness that has been my only companion for two thousand years.

A change. Something is changing. Something is different.

The scraping sound gets louder and I realize

It's the lid

They're removing—

No.

_He's_ removing the lid. His Essence, his Grace is the key to the lock. It literally _has_ to be him.

I feel my heart speed up, pounding hard and fast against my ribcage. He's back. I don't know if I'll stab him or hug him, but whatever I do, he has some explaining to do.

But this means…this means… oh God this means he hasn't forgotten me—he still loves me—my brother, my father in all but blood, my protector, my only friend.

Obviously it was me…I did something wrong, heinously wrong, and I am just too immoral, too faulty, to much of an _abomination_ to see it, but my punishment is over. He's forgiven me. We can be a family again.

_I can feel the sun again._

As the lid scrapes back further, I feel the shackles around my powers slide off, feel my soul climbing the edges of the cylinder, feel the euphoria of freedom begin to permeate my being as my nostrils smell _smells_ again, my skin feels _warmth_.

The light is blinding, but truly, any pain is better than the numbness of the cold metal walls.

I ascend into the room waiting for me, my heart filled with gratitude, and begin assembling my particles into the shape of Kara. I am Kara.

I try to hurry. I'd like to become acquainted with Castiel's new Vessel. He always chooses such intriguing faces. I find myself looking forward to reuniting with him nearly as much as I look forward to sunlight.

Allowing my particles to settle on the cool, smooth surface of the small room in which I seem to have landed, I wallow in the glorious aroma of humanity and nature that permeates the room—the…bathroom? I look with wonder upon the tile and the toilet and the shower—things I've heard about but never _seen. Oh, oh the glory of sight._ I can taste the salt of the ocean on the air, feel the delicious _warmth _ blowing on my naked back from the central heating system. _Naked._ Dammit. I'm going to need to find some clothes. But first.

_Castiel_.

I cautiously open the door to the bathroom, wondering at the cool smoothness of the doorknob against my fingertips and the sheer sensual comfort of the plush carpet on my still-cold feet as I step out into the…living space? beyond the doors. Two beds on this side of the dividing wall, and on the other…large metallic boxes. Several of them, of different shapes and sizes. As I watch, a man opens a door on one of them, reaches in, and takes out a bottle. Oh _I see_. A _refrigerator._ I've always wondered what they look like. Hmm. The man chats on the phone with another, and hasn't yet noticed me. I'm small, and tread softly, so I'm not surprised— and am actually quite relieved—that he hasn't seen me yet. Castiel isn't here—I need to find him. This refrigerator man is my best shot. I listen in.

"Come on back, Sammy, it looks like this case was a dud after all. The box was empty. Time to get some shut-eye for once."

_Interesting_. Could this be an infamous Winchester? The box…the box the angels worried after…_my_ box. My prison. I heighten my senses to hear the rest of the conversation.

"Sure, Dean. I'll just pack up a few things and be there in twenty. I want to come back here tomorrow, though—it's not all that often we find a cache of cursed objects this large, even if we didn't find what we were looking for."

"K. Ordering pizza. See ya, bitch"

"Jerk."

Dean _Winchester_ presses the telephone, causing it to emit a beeping sound, and presses it back to his ear. Ha. I've heard that sound so many times…

He commences ordering his pizza while I hide behind the fluffy chair in the corner. Of course the Winchesters would be here—it fits their profile perfectly to be the ones to release me—but where in Hell is Castiel? Why would he free me, then disappear? What did Dean mean about the "box" being a bust? Unless…

They couldn't exactly see my particles flying through the air to reform my body.

And if Castiel wasn't there to sense me, they really would think they just opened an empty box.

But no, that's impossible. Castiel sealed the prison, and only Castiel's Essence could unlock it. Only his Essence…

But, according to my recent hearing, Castiel has been pouring himself into these boys' lives with the devotion of a brother. I glance up at Dean, heightening my perception of aura as I do. Perhaps…

Ugh. He practically has waves of Castiel rolling off of his skin, out of his soul. Enough to provide a key to an old lock, especially with two of them together…

I slump back against the back of the chair, feeling bitter disappointment push my heart into my stomach. Cas never came back for me. Of course he wouldn't. I'm an abomination.

I push down the hot tears that threaten to boil to the surface and stand up, allowing the Winchester boy to see me for the first time. I step out from behind the chair just as he hangs up the phone and turns around.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

**Hey guys! feel free to send me any feedback, or ask me questions! I'm using this story to play with the concept of Cas _before_ the Winchesters, and the other possible reasons Naomi would have to mess with his head. Review and follow if you like it! :)**

**-TheEliot**

* * *

The look of shock on Dean Winchester's face is quickly replaced with one of wariness, then open hostility. I find myself staring directly into a sleek metal object that I can only surmise to be a weapon—perhaps a _handgun—_by the way he brandishes it.

"Who the Hell are you?" he says gruffly, his mouth a hard line, his hands steady on the weapon, "How did you get in here? And where the Hell are your clothes?"

I inspect his face, my eyes feasting on the beauty of humanity—it's been so long since I've seen an human face—but I say nothing. I'm not entirely sure I can.

Instead, I focus my attention on the ethereal vision of the dust motes drifting through the air between us. Golden with the light of the setting sun. Sunlight. So _beautiful. _My throat tightens and I feel my eyes well up with tears. This time I let them spill over.

Suddenly the weight of what is happening—my newfound freedom, my sensory overload, my helplessness, my crushed hope and sense of abandonment—seems to fall on me, all at once, and my knees buckle. I try to catch myself against the chair, but I must fail because I am on the floor. I don't care.

I'm free? Am I? Am I truly?

If not, I've simply cracked. The constant state of crushing terror, the thick, all consuming darkness, the information flowing like the rapids of a flooded river in my mind, have left me mad.

If so, it's a madness I'm willing to accept.

My head spins, the small room rendered into a blur of dull color. I feel my neck go slack, but my head seems to be moving still, and I realize that I must be laying on my back. There is dirt on the ceiling.

I feel something soft and heavy cover my body, trapping in my body heat and warming me within seconds. Oh, oh the _sweetness_ of _warmth_. I feel arms wrap around my torso, over the blanket, and realize that my entire body is shaking uncontrollably. How strange. There is a taste of salt on my lips, and my head still spins, but I ignore my…my sobbing…and focus instead on the feeling of being held. The feeling of human contact. I close my eyes tightly, trying to appreciate fully exactly how _safe _I feel, wrapped in this softness and held by strong arms. I feel my shaking subside, replaced by occasional tremors running through my body and long, dragging breaths. I shiver again.

I'm so warm. So completely warm and comfortable. I open my eyes slowly and realize the room has stopped spinning, but I feel myself slipping out of consciousness as deep sleepiness seeps through my body. The last thing I see is a pair of sage green eyes peering down into mine with an expression of intense confusion. I surrender to the bliss of slumber, and let the darkness take me in. As I sleep, I dream.

I remember.

_I am lying in my bed, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun that is pouring through the open window. Castiel lets me leave the windows open at night because he knows that the darkness and stifling heat terrify me. The breeze calms me in the night, after a nightmare. _

_Now, the breeze simply caresses my skin, leaving me feeling refreshed and ready to begin the another blissful day._

_I smile, aware of just exactly how happy I am, and leap out of bed. I dress hurriedly and skip down the stairs, expecting to see Castiel in the kitchen. He was called away suddenly last night by the angels, but I am sure he will be back now. _

_I'm right. As I walk—well, skip—into the kitchen, I see him leaning against the rough wooden table, his back to me. He looks so tense. His head is bowed—praying? No, inspecting a book. I come closer. A…spell book? How odd. That's certainly not his expertise. Maybe I can help him. I peer over his shoulder to inspect the page._

_"__Good morning, Castiel," I speak the words right into his ear, and am pleased to see him jump, surprised. I was quite careful to tread lightly, just as I was taught, but he is so attuned to my Essence that he is usually able to sense me anyway. I guess I win this round. I smile playfully,_

_"__So, what are you up to? A little light morning reading?" _

_I glance down at the spell book and note the title of the spell: "Demillicus' Trap"_

_I peer at him in confusion, "Hey, isn't that the one…"_

_I glance around the room, noting the cylindrical silver chest on the table, the bowl filled with already-burnt offerings, the cut on Castiel's palm._

_And suddenly it dawns on me._

_My eyes come to rest, finally, on Castiel's face. And then, without a doubt, I know. _

_Oh God no._

_He is cold. Distant. He takes a step forward, and I take a step back, and suddenly there seems to be a pocket of thick air around me, trapping me. I look down. That crafty bastard. His advances forced me into a Demillicus Triangle. I'm stuck. Just like mother. I'm trapped. _

_Somehow I can't seem to care. _

_My eyes do not shift from Castiel's face. I do not blink. I feel hot tears cascade down my face, and I let them fall. His cold grey eyes—so different from when I saw him yesterday—stare mercilessly back into mine. _

_What could I have done to warrant this? I was sure everything was going so well._

_I thought I was helping._

_He said it'd never come to this._

_He promised._

_My lip trembles, and the weight on my chest makes speaking impossible. He picks up the chest and begins the final incantation. He looks up at me when the spell is completed, and I manage to choke one word out through the tightness in my throat._

_"__Why?"_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

**Aaaand she meets the infamous Winchesters! Feel free to review/send me any feedback you have! Thanks for reading! :)**

**-TheEliot**

* * *

I am drifting on a soft pool of liquid warmth, my every muscle relaxed. I am utterly at peace. Somewhere in the distance, voices mutter, but what they are saying makes no impression. Where am I? How did I come to be here? I flew out of my cylinder—I was in a bathroom. Such funny little rooms, both functional and decorative. What is the purpose of an attractive bathroom? I walked out. I met the Refrigerator Man. What was his name again…

Dean Winchester.

I feel a shot of adrenaline shoot stingingly up my legs, leaving my toes tingling, but force my self to remain completely still, my breathing even and slow. I take stock of my surroundings. I'm warm, and lying on something soft. There are two men in the room with me, based on the rhythm of the heartbeats and breathing. They're talking—about me. A voice I've only heard on the telephone is speaking—Sam Winchester.

"Dean, we can't just tie up innocent girls in a cheap motel room—do you realize how much trauma this girl is going to go through, waking up naked and tied up in a motel room with a couple of guys with guns? We can at least untie her."

Huh. I hadn't realized my hands were tied. As though that could stop me. I suppress a smirk.

"The door was locked, Sammy."

"What?"

"The door was locked. There is literally no _way_ she got in here—either she's something new and can walk through walls or teleport or some shit, and we need to question her and find out what the hell is up, or someone—namely Cas, considering he's the only one who knows where we are—dropped her off here and she needs our help. Either way, she can't leave. And personally, I'd like to find out what the hell happened to her."

His voice drops to a near whisper. I listen more intently, amplifying my hearing to better understand him.

"Sam, she looked so _terrified_. She looked like she had just been through—just escaped from—_Hell_. There's no way I let her leave without finding out who—or _what—_ could do that to a little slip of a girl to make her break down like that. She's _broken, _Sammy. And one way or another, we're either gonna have to help fix her…or gank her."

So they aren't aware that I was held in the box. I hear…Sam, judging by the weight of his footsteps…stand up and walk across the room, the resonance of his steps changing as he steps off the lush carpet and onto the tile of their metal kitchen. I judge now to be an appropriate time to alert them of my wakefulness. I change the rhythm of my breathing and crack my eyes slightly, assuming that their watch over me is intent enough to notice such infinitesimal changes. I am correct. I hear a shuffling of feet and the smacking of lips—evidence of someone mouthing something—then the television is switched on and they sit down on what I gather to be the bed next to mine. I open my eyes fully.

And am once again assaulted by the beauty of color. The tones of this small room—which I may once have perceived to be dull, are _ravishing_. I'll never become entirely used to this. I can tell from the window that the sun has set, and the flashing light of the television—so strange, to see it as well as hear it—is the most prominent light in the room. The men pretend to be intently watching the television, but there is a tension in them that I know comes from their complete focus on my every movement.

Hunters, indeed.

I sit up slowly, propping myself up on my elbow. I am covered by an inordinately large pile of blankets—evidently the men were uncomfortable with the idea of my waking up feeling exposed. A tent-like plaid shirt lies folded on the bed next to me. Using as little movement as is possible, so they won't feel obliged to pretend to notice me, I push my arms through the fabric and button it up. I am quite certain that when I stand, the shirt will reach at least halfway down my thighs. I cough a little to warrant their attention, not having to feign weakness because of my very real fatigue, and they look over at me, their movements slow—they're trying so hard not to frighten me. It's quite endearing. I try to speak, but my voice comes out as a whisper,

"Water?"

I attempt to sit up further, but am impeded by the awkwardness of my bound wrists. Dean reaches over to the bedside table and retrieves a tall glass of water, handing it to me gingerly. I grasp it between my fingers, my hands shaking, and tip it into my mouth.

_Pure bliss. _

I didn't realize how desperately I have missed the simple feeling of my thirst being _quenched_. I guzzle the water urgently, prompting a slightly sassy "slow down, it ain't goin' anywhere" from Dean. I don't listen—can't—until the glass has been drained.

If this is my reaction to water, how will I handle eating again?

How will I handle _being in this world?_

And what am I even supposed to _do_ anymore?

Ugh. I have more immediate problems. No time for existentialism.

I look up at the brothers, wondering what I should tell them. The truth? They care for _him_, I know, so they may defer to him—in which case they may attempt to trap me again.

They won't succeed with me on my guard against them, but it may inconvenience me.

Then again, from what I have gleaned from my information over the course of…well, their entire lives, I suppose—they aren't just heroes. The Winchester brothers are genuinely _good_ people. They have developed their consciences based on inherent virtue and follow them unfailingly. Unless they deem me a monster—which, I suppose, isn't entirely out of the question— I should be safe. And I do so hate lying to good people. I hate liars.

I focus my gaze on the eyes of each of the brothers in turn, seeking desperately some answer, some reassurance of my trust in them.

And in their eyes I see confusion, wariness, and even a hint of fear. However, what stands out strikingly, and what I focus on, is the true and deep _concern_. They don't know me, they cannot have any idea what or whom I am, but they feel true concern for me.

In my entire life, only one other person has shown me that concern.

And he left.

And I miss it.

And that is what decides it for me.

Tonight I will tell the Winchesters my story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

**This chapter was pretty intense to write. Get ready to hear a little of Kara's background, and feel free to review/send me feedback whenever :)**

**-TheEliot **

* * *

"There's no need for such wariness," I begin, "I don't mean the two of you any harm."

Dean snorts slightly, as if challenging my ability to harm them. I look up from my hands, meeting his eyes and holding him there with my own. His smile falters slightly at the intensity of my stare, and his more primitive instincts warn him of the power—the abomination— sitting in front of him. I can smell the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He breaks eye contact, clearly confused by his visceral reaction, and I focus my attention back on my fingers, somewhat ashamed by my scare tactic. Still—he's better off if he doesn't underestimate me.

My eyes flick back and forth between the two brothers, taking stock of the situation, and I come to the conclusion that though they can know the truth, I must break it to them gently. Gradually.

Perhaps I will start at the beginning.

"The two of you are probably wondering how I came to be here," I speak quietly, my voice as soothing as possible, "I thank you for not asking me yet, it has been considerably easier to…adjust…due to your consideration of my privacy. Still. I think it's time that I explain myself."

I glance away from my fingers, which seem to have a mind of their own, and have unwoven and reshaped the ropes intended to bind my hands—the rope now resembles a lotus flower.

The boys look at me expectantly.

"My name…my name is Kara. I am, well…I am something _new_. Or very old. New to you, but I think perhaps that I am the only being of my…_species_…extant in modernity."

I glance up to glean their reactions just as Dean interrupts,

"Wait a sec, just how old _are _you? You look like you can't be more than nineteen, maybe younger, but you're talking like a stuffy old professor."

Sam hadn't spoken yet, but had been staring at me intently, an expression of the utmost concentration furrowing his brow, his eyes widened slightly and he focused on Dean, saying quietly,

"She's talking like _Cas_. She sounds exactly like him."

"Angel?"

They shrug together and turn their attention back to me.

I flinch imperceptibly at his name, and Dean studies me, clearly waiting for me to continue. I once again appreciate their willingness to allow me to move at my own pace, and assume that it probably has to do with the fact that I had an emotional breakdown on the floor of their motel room. I bite my lip nervously and try to phrase my answer,

"I'm…eighteen, in a way, but have been alive for a much longer period of time than an average eighteen year old."

"So you're like a vampire?" Dean asked, as both brothers tensed instinctively.

"No, not like that…I'm…" I struggle to describe my condition, still not used to forming words in this language. Listening for a few hundred years isn't the same as speaking. Suddenly I'm struck with an idea.

"Do you think…do you think you would let me _show_ you?"

They immediately look wary, but I cut off Sam as he attempts to speak,

"It's not in any way dangerous. I told you, I am something _new_ to you, and the _something_ that I am is telepathic. I have not delved into your minds as of yet, do not worry—I would not breach your trust in that way—but I am able to tell you my story much more…accurately…if you could be here, inside my mind, as I flip through the information. You will not be in a trance of any kind—you will be aware of your surroundings—but you will _see_ the truth of my words. I want you to trust me."

"First, I want you to explain to me how you can be eighteen _in a way_. Then we'll talk about you getting into our heads." Dean says, his eyes viewing me critically.

"I'm not going to be _getting in your heads_. If anything, you'll be inside mine. And as for the other…" I take a breath, bracing myself for the frightening truth that I have barely allowed myself to accept, "My body, my mind, and my earthly memories are that of an eighteen year old…person…but I have been conscious…I have been in stasis…I have been frozen without being frozen, aging without maturing, learning without truly developing…" I flounder, trying to describe how captivity affected me, "I have been in a prison of time for 2000 years."

There is a moment of awkward silence.

"Okay so you're definitely gonna have to elaborate on that one." Dean says, clearly becoming exasperated with my cryptic answers. "What the hell is a prison of time?"

"I was trapped in a dimension outside of time. You've actually perceived the physical manifestation of the dimension—it looks like an old chest, or box, cylindrical in shape and with a series of runes etched into the rim."

Their faces pale. Suddenly it occurs to me that I do not know how they became aware of my prison—what prompted them to seek it out?

"So…you're what was in the box? You're what we released?" Sam inquires, his eyes glancing up and down my small figure. He looks…confused.

"Yes. The box is a prison, designed by witches—the Ancients—specifically to capture Beings like me. It is intended to be a weapon of the Heavens, and is sealed by a powerful Enochian sigil, which is only activated by the Angel who draws it. Supposedly, the box—Demillicus' box—traps its prisoner in a single moment of time, and that moment is all the prisoner is aware of until—if—the Angel who bound it decides to release him or her. The reality, however, is rather less pleasant."

I am silent, willing myself to remain where I am, trying so desperately to push down the memories of the cold, the crushing, heavy darkness, oh God I can't breathe—

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and open my eyes to see the concerned faces of the Winchester brothers. I shiver, and realize that I have broken out into a cold sweat, my hands clenched so tightly my fingernails have cut the skin. I take a deep breath and continue,

"The particular Angel who trapped me made a mistake with the sigil…or he thought he was being merciful…perhaps he was…but instead of binding me completely, he allowed me a small—but powerful—window to the outside world. I am telepathic, as I said, and he left me with part of that. I could not send out any of my own waves of thought, but I was allowed to pick up whichever signals I so chose. The side effect, of course, being that I was aware, completely and entirely, of every passing second of time."

"You sure it was an accident? Angels can be douche bags, believe me." Dean says, a note of commiseration in his voice. Sam kicked him, obviously thinking that I would not see and wishing to punish his brother for insensitivity. I wince along with Dean, aware of the blood pooling under his skin at the ankle. I had almost forgotten about bruises.

I sigh, the sinking feeling in my chest having nothing to do with the image of Dean's bruise, "I certainly hope it was an accident. The betrayal of imprisonment is enough of a burden to bear, without the pain of intentional torture." I shudder, realizing what I just implied—I am going to have to get used to giving people half-truths. I hadn't meant to tell them about my friendship with my captor. They seem to pick up on my reluctance to continue that train of thought, though I can tell from the heavily meaning-filled glance they shoot at one another that they will be inquiring further about my betrayal after they feel that I am sufficiently rested. They obviously don't plan to let me go. Not that they have any power over me. Not that I have anywhere to go.

"Anyway, this fault in the sigil lead to my consciousness being aware of the passing of time, while my psyche and physical body remained static at eighteen. My mental acuity and physical well-being are as they were, though my body suffered somewhat from the disassembling and re-assembling of my particles, resulting in my current fatigue. My memories, however, and my knowledge, are that of someone with access to 2000 years worth of information."

I pause, letting them process the once again look at one another meaningfully, and I wonder if being attuned as they are to one another has allowed them some form of telepathy. That certainly seems to be the case. I am tempted to listen in on them, but decide against it. No need to betray their trust now. Not yet.

Dean is the first to speak.

"Okay, so you've been in some kind of time-prison for 2000 years, and you were trapped there by some douchebag angel. But we still don't know—why did they trap you there? what are you? what _happened_ to you to make you react so…violently…when I first saw you?"

He said this last part silently, as though his curiosity had gotten the better of his sensitivity. I decide to answer his last question first. It seems my breakdown upset him. I look into his eyes, not trying to scare him this time, just trying to form the best explanation to the utter _terror_ of that cylinder. The constant and _crushing_…not going there. Finally, I just answer simply,

"I am severely claustrophobic."

This statement seems to confuse them both—such an ordinary plight in such an extraordinary situation. I decide to elaborate.

"When I was a child—a very small child—my family was attacked by those who feared my reaching my full potential. They decided to stop me before I became powerful enough to do any damage, and they ransacked my home, killed my parents, and toppled the house down in the process."

I gather my strength, trying to sound as distant and clinical as possible.

"They failed to finish the job—they failed to kill me. Instead, I was left…"

I pause, and decide that bluntness is the way to go.

"…crushed under the corpse of my decapitated mother, and the both of us under a large pile of rubble. I believe I was in that state for days, because by the time I was rescued, my mother's corpse was partially decomposed."

I glance up at them, taking stock of their horrified expressions. I find myself unable to stop talking.

"For the rest of my life, I found myself unable to sleep well because of the nightmares of being trapped in the dark, the heat, and the stench of my rotting mother. I needed open windows at all times, and could not sleep without a candle until I was sixteen."

I pause and take a sip of water to way down the lump in my throat.

"My prison was not the ideal environment for a severe claustrophobic," I say dryly.

We sit in silence for a few moments, the boys processing the information while I revel in the plate of crackers they gave me. Every bite of the salty snack provides me with a burst of flavor so intense that I experience bouts of synesthesia, explosions of blue popping up around me as I crunch. I am so preoccupied that I do not pay attention to their conversation, and barely notice when they return. It is Sam this time who speaks.

"Okay, Kara, we're ready for you to show us the rest of your story."

I pause, a cracker halfway to my lips, and brace myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! This is Part I of Kara's story-hope you like it! Please review! I love hearing back from everyone, private message or public. **

**-TheEliot**

* * *

I look searchingly at the men sitting across from me in the small motel room, wondering how they'll react to the exposition of my story. I trust them. They'll do the right thing.

And I guess, for the first time, I'll actually _know_ whether or not I am the volatile monster I've believed myself to be since the night of my parents' deaths.

I lift my arms and grasp the boys' hands in my own. Mine seem so small.

_Brace yourselves_.

Their eyes widen at my mental communication, but they do not turn away.

I lift my fingers to their faces, and lay my palms over their eyes.

And start _telling_.

* * *

_I can't breathe when I open my mouth I taste that sickly sweet metal-spoon taste of blood and I know it's hers and she's dead and oh god when I breathe the smell makes me gag and choke and I know I'm being crushed and mommy's dead I think I should be dead too but I'm not and I have to breathe oh god I have to breathe but if I open my mouth _

_It hurts too badly_

_I open my mouth_

_oh god the smell the taste oh god please let me die let me go with my mommy why am I here why can't I stop gagging I've already thrown up everything I have why is my mommy dead oh please let this be a dream let her not be dead oh please give me my mommy back daddy where are you daddy why aren't you helping me please please please please please_

_let me scream _

_i need to scream_

_there's not enough air_

_air _

_a hand _

_a beam of sunlight hits my face_

_the cool breeze of the morning after a storm_

_and I am not with mommy under the house. I am taking deep breaths in the arms of a man. A man like daddy. He smiles—just a little smile, but just at me. His smile is only for me. He whispers his name in my ear and says he's here to protect me. I am shaking and crying again. He kisses my forehead and I fall asleep._

* * *

_"_Who was that angel? What was his name?"

"His name is his to reveal."

* * *

_I sit in a small, well furnished room. It is days since my Angel took me from underneath mommy. I try to talk to him, to answer his questions, but whenever I try my throat catches and I get scared and I have to stop. He smiles—he's being so nice to me. His eyes—so alive, so full—seem to peer into me, and to love me for what they see. He is the only one who makes me less scared. _

_The others scare me._

_The loud one storms around the room, demanding things and trying to make me talk. I heard the shiny one talk about killing me, and the loud one got mad and said I could help them. I think I'd like to help my Angel, but I don't I can do anything special. My Angel just stands quietly in the corner as this all goes on. I wish he would sit with me, but I think the loud one and the shiny one are in charge like mommy and daddy were. _

_They say a lot of things I don't understand, their voices getting fuzzy and my muscles relaxing against the fluffy chair. They start saying things to my Angel, who looks at me with his kind eyes and nods. I blink, and everyone is gone but my Angel. He just looks at me for a moment, then picks me up and carries me to a big fluffy bed. He wraps me in a soft blanket and sits next to me on a chair. I fall asleep looking at his face, his head tilted to one side and his brow slightly furrowed. _

* * *

_I creep along the hallway, my weight shifting carefully, every step precise. My movement is entirely soundless, just as Angel taught me. Noting the windows next to me, I noiselessly shift from a creep to a soundless crawl, using only my toes—sheathed in soft leather boots— and the tips of my fingers, gloved by a similar material. I peek around the corner, noting the guard standing in front of my goal, and send a wave of sleepiness at him. I stand up and move silently to the door, retrieving my lock-picking kit from its place in my satchel and setting to work on the door quickly, searching the rooms around me with my mind for any trace of thought. Determining that I am alone with the sleeping guard, I allow the door to _click_ open, and move immediately to the pedestal in the center of the room. Got it. Feeling euphoric at the thought of impressing Angel, I grab the dusty spell book and leave the room, careful to lock the door behind me. I spare a pitying glance at the guard. He never had a chance. I slight smile on my face, I go back whence I came. _

* * *

_"__But _why_ am I different from the others?" I feel my voice comes out in a whine, but the question is so central to my angst that I cannot regret asking it. "How can I do these things? You said my training was to learn control—always, always you stress control—but you never said…is this it? Is this what that man meant…all those years ago…when he spoke to mother…"_

_I feel myself close to tears, and stop them from falling. Control. I am in control. _

_Angel kneels down in front of me, his face all compassion, all soft lines. His eyes stare into mine as they did four years ago when he first saved me, their warmth promising safety and love. He smiles slightly, and I feel my shoulders relax. He always has that effect on me. _

_"__Kara. My pretty little Kara. My good girl. Why do you think the angels saved you from those who wish you dead? Kara, God needs you. You are special."_

_I look at him, not quite believing, but willing to listen. I know I'm different…_special_. Maybe I can help him, as he's always helped me…_

_His smile diminishes a little, and his hands on my shoulders grip me more tightly as he says,_

_"__But Kara, your power can be dangerous. That's why I have to stress control. I'm not going to lie to you—I will never lie to you—you are going to be more powerful than any demon…or angel…Kara you're going to have the power to move mountains and destroy whole worlds. But Kara…"_

_His gaze became more intense, and I could see in his eyes that he was worried for me. He seemed so…urgent._

_"__Kara if you _ever_ give the angels cause to fear your morals, if you _ever_ slip up, even once, and innocents are hurt..they will stop you. They will hurt you."_

_He has tears in his eyes, now. I can see how afraid he is of me, of my power, of what my power might do to our happy little family of two._

_"__Kara, _I_ will stop you."_


	6. Chapter 6

_I can't help but be a little in love with my Angel, as I watch him chuckle at some private thought and chop vegetables for tonight's dinner. He's just so…him. He combines the transcendence of the angelic hosts with the personal, compassionate nature of humanity and I _know_ him. I_ know_ him and he's _mine._ His bright grey eyes flicker up to meet the dark blue of my own, his deep and full of laughter. He winks, saying,_

_"__I know I'm pretty, Kara, but really, the staring is getting a bit much." _

_I blush and look down, burying my head in my book, pretending to laugh it off, but really swallowing embarrassment at my silliness. I seriously need to stop fantasizing about the only father-figure I've ever had. At this point, my fantasies might be considered incestuous, and that's pretty much off-limits if I'm to continue rooming with an angel of the lord. _

_I'm still pleasantly surprised when I hear his joking about like this. It's been—13 years now? 14?—since he and I have been together, and to say that I grew up with very little sarcasm or humor would be an understatement._ I've_ had to teach_ him _about the finer things in life—that is, anything outside of food, clothes, and prayer. It's been quite a journey, but if he's_ winking _I'd say it's been a successful one. _

_I refocus on his figure, watching the muscles in his forearm flex as he kneads the dough. Zeus it's hard to think chaste thoughts when he looks like that. Why couldn't he have picked an ugly vessel—or a vessel who looked older than 21? How is he supposed to be my mentor when I can't stop watching his mouth _biting his lip_ and now my mouth is watering. _

_I glance over at my reflection in the glass hanging on the wall. Large eyes, thick hair. Too small, but I choose to believe I make up for my stature with curves. I know I'm nice to look at, there's no denying it. I'm not a little girl anymore. _

_I wonder how naive he is. I've not exactly broached the topic with him. He might not even notice. _

_But he might._

_I stand up and walk slowly toward him, allowing mu hips to undulate as I walk, looking at him steadily, never breaking eye contact, peering through my lashes. He glances up absently, then back at the vegetables. _

_Then he double takes. _

_His eyes are on mine now, knife slipping onto the counter, vegetables forgotten. I see his eyes flick up and down my form, then back to my eyes as I continue walking. He is inches away from me, our breath mingling, my hand resting on his chest. I can feel his heart beating—too fast. My breath is coming so fast I'm afraid that I'm quite close to panting. My eyes are locked on his, and his on mine, the sheer force of his gaze causing my heart to race. I lick my lips. His gaze flicks down to my mouth and remains there and I know it's not his vessel I want, it's_ him._ I lean forward…_

Holy Hera what am I doing.

Literally Athena I thought you were my friend.

_I laugh breathlessly, nervously, and push away from him, saying something vague about needing to put my book away while I hurriedly escape this whirlpool of dangerous feelings. _

_I fly up the stairs and close the door to my room, crossing quickly and flinging the balcony door wide. I feel the cold air hit my face, which is stinging with tears. I breathe deeply to calm my racing heart._ _The only person I care about. We couldn't handle this. He can't handle this._

_But at least he isn't immune to me—to this—to what we have._

_But angels don't feel that way. Not like we do._

_They're not allowed._

_That can't ever happen again._

_I collapse onto the soft chair and weep until I have nothing left. _

_Then I wash up and head down to dinner._

* * *

_I'm sitting with him, both of us reading our respective tomes—mine on ancient witchcraft, his an early edition—possibly the first or second written—of Homer's Iliad (he's so fascinated by the human condition) when he ungracefully rips the veil from the elephant in the room that's been plaguing us this week. _

_ "I can't seem to put your predatory approach of me last week out of my mind. It's been quite irritating." _

_ I inhale sharply as he frowns at me, his brow furrowing and his lips slightly pursed, looking more perturbed at himself than irritated at me. I take a moment to recover, standing up and walking over to the window. I don't want to hear him belittle that moment. It ruined my peace, but it was also one of the best moments of my life. How pitiful. I respond with admirable calm._

_ "Predatory? Angel, I was trying to discern the color of your eyes—they switch so often, and you know how I am with colors."_

_ Hades, I sound like an idiot. Color of his eyes? Who the hell am I, I'm supposed to be witty and quick on my feet. _

_ I hear footsteps behind me and turn to face him._

_ Damn._

_ My arm bumps his leg as I swing around, he is so close to me. I find myself staring determinedly at the hollow at the base of his neck, forcing my mind into pristine blankness and crossing my fingers that he won't embarrass me when I'm at my weakest. He must know how cloudy my mind gets when he's close enough for his delicious scent to be surrounding me, for the warmth of his chest to be seeping under my skin. _

_ I feel his hand cup my chin, like he did when I was a child, and my breath hitches in my throat. I find that I cannot look away from his eyes._

_ I'm trapped. _

_ I feel his deep voice vibrate through my rib cage as he mumbles, almost to himself, his voice confused and husky,_

_ "I can't get this out of my mind. It's all I can think about, and I find myself wanting to—"_

_ His lips, nearing mine as he speaks, finally close around my own, hot and soft. I feel my self melt into him, too dizzy and liquid to rationalize my way out of this. _This. This is what it's all for. This is what makes it okay.

_His tongue slides against my own, and I am flying. _

* * *

_ In am lying in my bed, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun that is pouring through the open window. He lets me leave the windows open at night because he knows that the darkness and stifling heat terrify me. The breeze calms me in the night, after a nightmare._

_Now, the breeze simply caresses my skin, leaving me feeling refreshed and ready to begin the another blissful day._

_I smile, aware of just exactly how happy I am, and leap out of bed. I dress hurriedly and skip down the stairs, expecting to see my Angel in the kitchen. He was called away suddenly last night by the angels, but I am sure he will be back now._

_I'm right. As I walk—well, skip—into the kitchen, I see him leaning against the rough wooden table, his back to me. He looks so tense. His head is bowed—praying? No, inspecting a book. I come closer. A…spell book? How odd. That's certainly not his expertise. Maybe I can help him. I peer over his shoulder to inspect the page._

_"Good morning, my Angel," I speak the words right into his ear, and am pleased to see him jump, surprised. I was quite careful to tread lightly, just as I was taught, but he is so attuned to my Essence that he is usually able to sense me anyway. I guess I win this round. I smile playfully,_

_"So, what are you up to? A little light morning reading?"_

_I glance down at the spell book and note the title of the spell: "Demillicus' Trap"_

_I peer at him in confusion, "Hey, isn't that the one…"_

_I glance around the room, noting the cylindrical silver chest on the table, the bowl filled with already-burnt offerings, the cut on his palm._

_And suddenly it dawns on me._

_My eyes come to rest, finally, on Angel's face. And then, without a doubt, I know._

_Oh God no._

_He is cold. Distant. He takes a step forward, and I take a step back, and suddenly there seems to be a pocket of thick air around me, trapping me. I look down. That crafty bastard. His advances have forced me into a Demillicus Triangle. I'm stuck. Just like mother. _

_I'm trapped._

_Somehow I can't seem to care about my future. __My now hurts too much._

_My eyes do not shift from my Angel's face. I do not blink. I feel hot tears cascade down my face, and I let them fall. His cold grey eyes—so different from when I saw him yesterday—stare mercilessly back into mine._

_What could I have done to warrant this? I was sure everything was going so well._

_He kissed me. _

_ I thought I was helping._

_He said it'd never come to this._

_He promised._

_My lip trembles, and the weight on my chest makes speaking impossible. He picks up the chest and begins the final incantation. He looks up at me when the spell is completed, and I manage to choke one word out through the tightness in my throat._

_"Why?"_


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Thanks to everyone's wonderful reviews-I've been inspired to pick up the story again. Can't stand to ****disappoint. **

**So-sorry for the short chapter, I'll give you guys the next on from Cas' POV as a consolation prize. ;)**

**Thanks, and hope you enjoy!**

**-TheEliot**

* * *

I lean back from the two men across from me, breathing hard. I reach up to pull a strand of hair from my face, and realize that my cheeks are wet—I've started crying. I _will_ the tears into nonexistence and dissipate the blood under my cheeks that is causing my face to become flushed. I'll get over it all much more quickly if I pretend to be unaffected.

And if I can't convince myself, the least I can do is convince the Winchesters.

Though it might be rather difficult considering the images they've just seen.

I peer up at them under a curtain of my hair and try to gauge their reactions. Sam seems more shocked than anything, and his calculating mind is spinning with the possibilities and— I realize with amusement—with the sheer academic joy of having glimpsed Greece in the first few decades of the Common Era.

Dean still seems to be attempting to recover from the shock of my—well, rather shocking—memories. His face, pale from a deep immersion in my emotions, begins to flush, and I realize with a jolt that he is becoming angry.

"Dammit, those feathery dirtbags haven't changed at all over all these years! Shoving their way into people's lives with their self righteous bullshit and their cult-y propaganda and leaving everything a screwy mess—those fucking douche bags have some serious shit to answer for. Next thing we know it'll be Cas tryna shove an angel blade down our throats again—"

He stops abruptly as a thought seems to come to him, and he—thankfully—doesn't notice me wince at Castiel's name. He has pauses in he middle of the room, and is craning his neck slightly, as though listening and looking simultaneously—

Oh no.

I thought I'd have more time.

The sinking feeling in my chest is making it hard for me to breathe clearly as I hear Dean whisper into the ether "Cas, buddy, you gotta come down here. It's hard to explain, but—it has to do with angels, I think. It's important. Just come."

Before I can prepare myself, before I can even force my mind to stop working at the sluggish speed of humanity, he has materialized just behind Dean. I shrink into the shadows, hiding my Essence and hoping to remain unnoticed for at least a few blessed seconds. I take this opportunity to study him, switching mental gears to allow my mind to move at its own pace.

The world slows down.

His new vessel is thinner and shorter than his last, the one I knew. I take in the tan coat, the slightly hunched shoulders of a scholar, the dark hair, the pale skin. Full lips. His movements are awkward, scattered and confused—the way I remember him from my childhood. Angels may be renowned as graceful, but that certainly doesn't come from the way they handle their Vessels. He's lost everything he learned from the beauty of the humanistic Hellenistic Era. It's really quite sad. I would wager to bet that he's quite forgotten how to dance.

I see him stiffen as he listens to Dean's hurried account, see his body pivot and his muscles tense. So he does remember me. I may have been a career move for him, but at least I impacted his life. Ugh. I'm pathetic.

His body finishes it's turn and he is facing me, he is looking at me and I see his eyes.

I am trapped.

I am swallowed by the vastness of those eyes, blue now, not the shining silver I know, but deeper, older. It isn't the color that captivates me—it never was. It's the light. His eyes are molten light—no longer moonlight, though. Now they are a summer sky. And I—I am still mesmerized.

I step into the light of the rising moon and watch him trying to recalibrate his system. His breath is coming fast now, and the emotion I expected—hostility, irritation—isn't there.

The only emotion shining from his eyes is fear.

What did I do to deserve this?

What kind of abomination inspired that kind of fear?

Dean can help me with this. He'll attack me if I'm evil—I don't have to worry about my own label anymore.

I continue staring into Castiel's eyes, waiting for some sign, some falter, some glimpse of warmth.

I am denied.

There is only loathing. Only terror.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys! This one is from Cas' POV, as promised-I love to hear your feedback, so feel free to review. Doesn't have to be long, short and sweet works for me XD (Double ****entendre intended) I hope you appreciate how hard it is to skip homework for y'all. ;)**

**Hugs and kisses and bumblebees**

**-TheEliot**

* * *

I am suspended in the center of the tunnel of water, my body spinning so quickly I almost feel formless again. There is salt water in my lungs and through my sinus cavities, but I have surpassed the pain of drowning, and my Grace heals my vessel as his body—my body, now that he's gone—starves for oxygen. I should be working to piece together what is left of Heaven, but for now, there is just spinning, and darkness, and quiet.

_Cas, buddy, you gotta come down here. It's hard to explain, but—it has to do with angels, I think. It's important. Just come._

The voice of Dean Winchester upsets my reverie and in less than a nanosecond I am flying once again, the vortex of the continuum of time and space pummeling my clothes and hair and lungs as they dry. I revel in the ecstasy of allowing my wings to expand and grow substantial as they _beatbeatbeatbeat_ and then I am standing with Dean in a motel in west Texas and my wings are gone and reality's back.

Dean starts babbling incoherently, clearly trying to remain quiet for some reason, and I can't quite focus on what he's saying because of the

_Presence._

_"__Why?"_

I haven't felt that Essence since. I haven't remembered that life in. They commanded me return to Heaven, and I refused to look back, refused to disobey, but.

_Kara. _

_Her face, smiling mischievously at me as I prepare the prison that cost her mother her sanity, that cost her father his life. Her eyes, unsuspecting, filled with trust and hope and love. _

_Then._

_The moment she caught sight of the incantation in the spell book—the same book she stole from her enemies to protect herself. She'd have been safer if she'd left it alone._

_"__Hey, isn't that the one…"_

_The light of trust and hope and love doesn't falter. She looks up at me, and I meet her gaze with coldness, distance, feeling this feeling that I've never felt before and hating myself for it, hating myself for hurting her and hating myself for caring, for caring like a human cares._

_And she does't hate me. She doesn't blame me, her eyes tell me. She knows I'm doing what I have to in order to protect the world from an abomination. _

_She hates herself. She trusts me so fully she hates herself. _

_I wish I had her confidence._

_But then her fear—her blinding _terror_—interrupts her confidence and I just want to hold her like I did when she was small, when she was too little to intentionally cause harm, when Heaven still had faith in her._

_But I can't._

_"__Why?"_

_I don't know, Kara._

_I finish the incantation and watch her gorgeous eyes, filled with that hateful self-loathing, dissipate into particles as she is sucked into the trap I designed. The trap I sealed with my own Grace. I'm selfishly glad that a part of me remains with her. _

And she's here. She's standing in front of me, her shoulders slightly caved in with insecurity, her eyes shining with vulnerability. She looks like a child again.

And I'm terrified. What will I see when I look into her soul?

What have I done to you?

Behind the naked vulnerability there is an emptiness, a deadness, a pain that wasn't there before—she is broken.

And I broke her.

That feeling, suppressed by thousands of years of angelic training, teaching, and mental cleansing is rising to the surface like acid, and I am convinced that I am about to experience vomiting for the first time.

I _hate _myself. I _hate _this.

Angels aren't supposed to feel this, this—_loathing_.

_She_ is the reason I listened to Dean Winchester. _She_ is the reason I disobeyed.

I could not make the same mistake twice.

There is a tightness behind my eyes, a heat, as I confront the person I love still—the little girl who could have changed the world—and I feel my eyelids prick as water begins to well into my eyes.

I can't breathe. I don't need to breathe, but somehow my body is convinced that it does, and my breath is coming in short gasps.

I realize that I haven't said anything, but before I can, she _speaks_ and I hear her voice—her voice, mezzo and clear and silky, say my name.

"Castiel?"

Something in the room seems to break, and she takes a few steps forward, gushing,

"Castiel I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know I was doing anything wrong, please _please_ don't put me back _please." _She's sobbing, broken, wrenching sobs and I know what I've done to her. I put her in a tight, dark place for thousands of years when even a small room with no windows used to throw her into panic attacks. I put her in her own personal Hell.

And she's apologizing.

_What?_

There are tears rolling down her cheeks, and despite the self loathing that is rising up inside me, my compassion for her overwhelms me, and I step towards her, reaching out my arms just as she rushes in to meet me. It feels natural, normal, though strange with a new Vessel. She is sobbing into my chest like she did _before_, and I feel the hot…tears…slip down my cheeks as I rock her back and forth, crooning nonsense words and reassuring her that I won't be putting her back—not that I have the power to do so now the she is wary of me. The only reason it worked last time was her complete trust.

I see Dean enter my line of sight and make eye contact, expecting to see confusion and impatience. I have so much to explain.

But he's not confused, not impatient. I meet Dean's eyes and he's _livid. _

Somehow Dean always seems to know who's in the wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

Warmth. Unbelievable warmth—I feel like I'm melting, but instead of pain I just feel this inexplicable _rightness_. Like I'm melting because I'm _supposed to_.

All I know is that I'm being held again, and not just by anyone, but by _him. _Somewhere away from this golden pool upon which I float, I am aware of the sobs that wrack my frame, but they don't really upset my peace. I've crawled into myself, and I can feel the broken creature buried deep inside my chest begin to turn its withered head toward the light.

I want to feel this way forever—I want to be trapped in _this_ moment, never forced to leave the comfort of this chrysalis.

Never forced to consider the likelihood that he's holding me out of the need for control, not out of love.

However, I'm forced to pull myself together (for the third time since I got out, I might add—pathetic) when I hear someone _growl_ behind me. I sniffle slightly and feel Castiel's muscles tense. I look up at his face—_I can't believe I get to do this, get to be this close to him again, he's still so beautiful_—and see that the tension is caused by confusion.

And suddenly I am ripped away from my Angel and pushed out of the way as _Dean Winchester _grabs hold of Castiel's coat collar and pushes him, _pushes_ him until he has him pressed up against the wall and his voice is so gruff and low that it comes out in a _growl,_

"It was _you_? Dammit, Cas, get away from her!"

He shoved him once against the wall, then released his collar with a huff. I feel my knees grow weak and sit down on the edge of the bed. My head is spinning with what I blandly realize is a side effect of disassembling and reassembling my particles, then attempting to ride a tempest of emotion—_with_ the hormones of an adolescent girl _and_ a superhuman sensitivity to emotion and touch. No wonder I feel pathetic.

I find myself caught up in the motion of Castiel's mouth as he argues with Dean—no, not argues—_pleads _with him and I know their voices are loud but the sound seems to be muffled and to echo simultaneously as the neurons in my brain try to cope with the blood rushing to my lungs and I need to

_breathe_

The cloudy silver and black mottling my vision dissipate, and I stand up, teetering a bit, and walk determinedly to Castiel, grab him by the arm—Dean barely notices at first, I'm just not in his line of sight, and he's just so _angry_—and say flatly.

"We need to talk. We're going."

I turn to look at Dean flatly, saying,

"I'm borrowing him for a moment."

As Dean opens his mouth to protest, I shift my body until he is out of my line of sight and look up at Castiel until his blue eyes are all I see. I let time slow, but just for me, so to him a bare second seems to pass, but I can look, just look, into his crystalline eyes—still cold and angry from his encounter with his Winchester. His Winchester. I stifle the feeling of jealousy that attempts to rupture from the bubble of emotion in my stomach. I need to focus on the problem at hand and figure out if I'm staying or—the more likely option—temporarily incapacitating my Angel in order to make myself invisible and sink into oblivion.

And, eventually, move on.

Damn.

But first I want answers.

I refocus my attention on his eyes, which just beginning to grow warm from the softness of my gaze, and try to bury the fear—the fear of my own ineptitude, the fear that he was _right_ to put me there—the fear that he'll try again.

Of course he won't succeed, but the attempt will be quite painful enough.

Without further thought, I open my mind and _sink_ into the surroundings, letting my particles dissipate into the air and bringing Castiel's with me. It takes a bit more concentration to grab his Grace, but I've done it before, and I manage without much difficulty. My mind may think it's been 2000 years, but my body remembers this.

And I am flying. I rise up, and up, and up…

I am flying high in the sky, the sunlight is beating against my arms, my hair, my clean face. The wind caressing and stirring my skin and hair. I am the essence of spirit, I am the flowers and the birds and the grass and the air and the water. I am emotionless, I am senseless, and I am _free._

And then I land.

And now I'm Kara.

Now I remember why I missed flying so much.

As soon as my feet become solid enough to touch the ground—damp grass on mud, I think we landed in Scotland—I feel Castiel pull away from me, spinning heatedly so that his back is to me, and the windows to his Essence are hidden from me. I can still hear his thoughts, should I choose, but it's not his thoughts that I want.

In fact, I think I'd rather not hear them.

I see the tension in his back and neck, and the odd urge to massage it out wells up in me. I suppress it. Suddenly my heart feels unbelievably heavy, and I dread the conversation to follow.

The words that come from his unfamiliar mouth shock me.

"Kara—" His voice breaks momentarily, and I see him swallowing some unknowable emotion, "I'm sorry."

I let out a breath I hadn't been holding and just stare, waiting for the catch.

"Kara I'm—I can't—there aren't words—I—"

He's pacing back and forth, always turned away, his hands in his hair, his breath coming fast.

"Kay—"

My breath catches at the use of my childhood pet name just as he turns to face me, his hands pulling at his hair, his face red, his clothes disheveled.

I feel my heart break as I observe the tears in his eyes, the redness around his nose and eyebrows—I want to go to him and let him wrap his arms around me, to pull his head down to the crook of my shoulder and hold him tightly and tell him that it'll all be okay, that I'm fine, that he didn't do anything wrong.

But I can't.

Because he's crying. _He's _crying.

He believes he's done something wrong.

He's guilty.

He never thought I did anything wrong—I didn't do anything wrong.

He cared about me, he _cared about me_ and he put me there, he _put me there _ and he knew that I hadn't done anything wrong. He was just following orders. Following heaven. Without even a question as to _why_.

And I can't forgive that.

So I don't take the _oh-so-small_ step across the cavern between us. I don't try to bridge the gap. I don't go to him and stroke his silky hair with soft hands or kiss his tearstained face with salty lips or grip his collar with pale, shaking fingers.

I keep my face impassive and cold to hide the writhing, emaciated creature trapped behind my ribcage.

And I simply stare.

And I feel so cold.


End file.
